


Your Bones, My Bedframe; Your Flesh, My Pillow (Grantaire's POV)

by MamzelleCombeferre



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Pylades Left, Sexual Content, but enough to merit a teen and up warning, not overly explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/pseuds/MamzelleCombeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire returns to Paris after the funeral and seeks company. (Pylades Left Verse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Bones, My Bedframe; Your Flesh, My Pillow (Grantaire's POV)

She was no Venus, but the girl was pretty enough, not that he’d noticed in his rush to get out of his clothing, because Parisian heat is stifling and his clothes are chaffing against his skin leaving angry red marks that show all too well on his pale pasty skin.

“Take yer time dear. I’m not going anywhere.” She says, almost timidly. He would have believed it, except for the way she looks at him, expecting what she thinks will come of this interaction, what comes from every client. She obviously isn’t going anywhere though, and so every bit of tension drains out of him, making him weak, though the heat and dehydration could be just as responsible for that. These days he almost never drinks water, even to fight off the inevitable hangover from nights of drinking several bottles of wine, topped off with an inch of undiluted absinthe which he pukes up in the alleyway right after in a cycle that lasts for days on end. Plus it is so hot outside, that even in this dark little wooden room he doesn’t even shiver. 

“M’names Marie.” The girl says, though it is clear that it is not a name she is comfortable with.

“Grantaire.” He answers back, his voice gruff from harsh liquors and evenings spent vomiting them back up. He makes no move to help her undress, not as though she needed it. Whore’s fingers are adept at maneuvering the easy snaps and laces of their dresses. Why should he make any extra effort? He crawls under the blanket which is soft and blue like a certain pair of eyes he was trying so hard to forget. It’s the only nice thing in the room. The furniture is in a state of patchwork disarray, the armoire missing a handle, the basin faded, the mirror chipped on the south east corner. The floor boards creak under pressure. She doesn’t react to any of this though, and once she is stripped to her chemise he asks her to stop. 

“I want you like that.” Is the only explanation he offers, vulnerable and warm. 

She’s remarkably cool about it, only a light quirk of her eyebrow to show this isn’t a typical request. “Wha’ever ya like.” 

The blanket is warm when she crawls under, laying so that she is facing him. “Now what is it you really want, dear?” She asks, and Grantaire almost laughs. What is it he wanted? Company, companionship, warmth, human contact? He could find all these things in a café. So what brought him here he couldn’t really say. 

“Just touch me.” He whispers as a half-hearted explanation, but it brings up a wave of pain and anxiety that he quickly tries to quell. He must succeed, because she moves on quickly enough. 

“Do ya not get enough lovin’, Monsieur?” She asks, looking like a child dressed up in her mother’s clothes and make up, too young, compensating for something. Her arm snakes under the covers and touches him there and he stiffens. It was not a bad touch. In any other time it would have brought him pleasure; even now he can’t hide the rise it gets out of him, and it makes him irrationally angry. He grabs her wrist and pulls it away, and for a moment she stiffens too, fear flashes in her eyes. Her laughter is forced. “M’apologies, Monsieur.” She says, her voice trembling barely perceptibly. 

He should feel bad, but he doesn’t. He says nothing, pushes against her body to turn her over so she faces away from him. So she can’t see his face when he releases a long pent breath. “Now come closer.” He says, and she does. She presses her body right up against his, molding he shape to his, still tensed, waiting for him to initiate. He wraps his arms around her, but does nothing more. Just breathes in her scent, places his head near her shoulder, lets her warmth sink into his bones, enjoying the feel of another human being all over; one who isn’t repulsed by the very sight of him, even if he is paying her to react so mildly. He falls asleep eventually, peaceful sleep, until he falls into deeper dreams.  
The inside of his dream is inky blackness. Grantaire is no stranger to darkness, to oblivion. He’s often sought solitude in it, sought numbness, but this makes him anxious. His skin crawls, and within five minutes the first sounds go off. A loud pop, a gasp of pain, a scream in agony. The smells come next. Residual gunpowder, decomposing flesh, piss, and shit. And then there’s Courfeyrac’s face, oh God, Courfeyrac’s face. “You have to save him Enjolras.” He murmurs feverishly. “Why can’t you save him?” He asks. “Why can’t you save me?” He cries. 

Suddenly he’s awake and looking at the girl. Her hand is on her cheek, there are tears in her eyes, and then it registers that his palm is tingling from the force of his slap. Shame wells up first, and then is stomach roils. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He says, barely scrambling out of bed in time to make it to the basin before emptying the meager contents of his stomach. He’s shaking, great frame wracking shivers. He wraps himself in his arms, waiting for the nausea to pass, not even enough energy to care that he is standing there naked, completely exposed. 

She begins to pick up his clothing where he had left them haphazardly on the floor. “It might be best if ya went home.” She is uncomfortable, that much is obvious, her inner thoughts playing out on her face to see. She looks honest for the first time since he arrived. 

“No, hold me again. Please.” Grantaire hates himself for how pitiful he sounds, how is voice cracks at the end. He sits on the bed, and she sits next to him, pulling his head down to rest on her lap. They don’t bother with the blanket. They are both too sweaty by now. She strokes his hair. He falls asleep again, so tired that it is peaceful. When he wakes it is dark outside, she stands up and so does he. She doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t try to as she gathers his clothing off the floor for the second time that night. Like the slow emergence from a dream, he dresses, and the outside seems a little bit colder when he leaves. 

He doesn’t go back to his rooms that night. Roaming the streets of Paris till dawn, he thinks of her, and upon the rising of the sun, he thinks of her no more.


End file.
